Ovid s Other Metamorphoses part 1
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Ovid's Other Metamorphoses
Permissible Intrigue
"Far away from here, you badges of modesty,
The thin headband, the ankle-covering dress." --Tristia 4.10
I woke the following day slightly before lunch, draped in an
uncomfortable reclining position on a lectus beside the dining table.
The light of Apollo through the window was blinding, my headache was
unbearable, and the previous night seemed like a dream. But I was
myself.
"It is good to see you awake," said my wife Flavia with a distant,
unsympathetic air. She sat in her chair opposite me, sipping at a cup
she held in both hands. "I presume you enjoyed your evening with your
poet friends."
It took both hands to push myself upright. "Yes. Poet friends," I
repeated, twisting around to sit on the recliner. "What is the time?"
"Lunchtime," Flavia said archly, without a glance at the horologium.
"Half the day is gone, my husband." There was point in talking with
her, it seemed; she probably assumed I had been out violating the vows
of our marriage. I didn't recall doing so, but there would be no
convincing her of that.
"You are fortunate that your name was not drawn for centumviri duty
this morning," she said. Her voice was one of annoyed calm. "But your
friend, Cornelius, called just after sunrise. You are to meet him at
the baths after lunch. Are you ill? Would you care for something to
drink? I can fetch you some water."
I nodded, but she made no move to stand. Shakily, I ascended to my
feet, clinging to the table, and saw the Bacchic Fiasco in the center
of the table.
"Cornelius said that belonged to you," Flavia went on. "I do not
recall seeing it in our house, my husband. Is it a gift from the Greek
woman who writes to you?"
"No," I answered brusquely. "It's not a gift from her."
She raised her eyebrow, but said nothing.
* * * * *
I met Cornelius Quadratus at the baths fed by the Aqua Virgo as soon as
I was able. He insisted we sit in the frigidarium, which I assumed was
for his amusement. I sat in the chilly water, shivering and blue,
while he explained our next move.
"C-can't we move to the caldarium? It's bitterly cold here," I said
with chattering teeth.
"Absolutely not," Cornelius said heartlessly, lounging against the wall
of the pool. He rubbed his bare feet over the mosaic tiles below the
water, a depiction of nymphs frolicking amid the vineyards. "Cold
water is the best thing for a hangover, believe me. And here it is
more private."
"Hardly private," I said. "Everything in here echoes."
"That's in your head, Ovidius. Listen to me: I have spoken to . . .
my friend. She has been making arrangements. We are to come to dinner
together in two days' time."
"We?"
"Yes, Big-Nose, you and I will attend together. She will want proof
that we have acquired it."
"Are you suggesting we bring a relic of -- to the house of --"
"No!" The echoes chased each other into the marble colonnades of the
frigidarium, and Cornelius lowered his voice. "I'm not," he went on,
quietly. "That would be suicide. Her father would never approve of
such a thing, if he knew what it was. We're not even sure he approves
of you, Ovid. Those poems of yours are a bit lusty for his taste. You
should stick to subjects a bit more regal and uplifting, like my work
on the Iliad."
"Men going to war for their gods?" I asked sardonically, despite my
throbbing head. "Minerva driving the Greeks across the sea into
glorious bloody battle over the injured vanity of a sister goddess?"
Cornelius appraised me carefully. "I'm surprised at you. You have
been touched by the gods themselves, and their magic. I would never
have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, but I was there. It gives
meaning to my poetry in a way that nothing else has ever done."
I was silent, for Cornelius had scored a valid point.
"In two days' time, five days before Market," he said. "You will have
to come to my place in the afternoon. They will send slaves for us,
when it is time for dinner. We will send your dress on ahead--"
My teeth began to chatter. "My dress?"
"Yes," Cornelius said with a devious smile. "Your poems aren't very
popular on Palatine, Ovidius, so you aren't going to be invited. The
invitation will be for me . . . and my wife. You, dear friend, will be
our lady Julia's proof."
* * * * *
To make the plan of Cornelius work, I secured another bottle of the fig
wine from the same seller where I had purchased it before. The
merchant was a clean-faced young man with rosy cheeks and a supple
smile, who sold his wares from a donkey cart in a forum on the east
side of Rome. The side of the cart was painted with images of fruit:
grapes, figs, apricots.
"Did you enjoy your bottle, my friend?" he said jovially.
"It was . . . most unexpectedly good," I conceded. "I am still feeling
faint from its effects."
His laugh was friendly and easy. "Yours was the fig, yes? I am sure
my father will be pleased to hear how you enjoyed it. He is proud of
the wine we make. We have been making caricarum for centuries up in
the hills, you know."
"Indeed?" I asked, and reached for my purse. "Then I hope you take it
as a compliment that I wish to purchase another bottle."
"Excellent," said the youth. "That's ten sold today. Since last
night, it has been selling very well."
He handed me the carafe of wine, the familiar white ceramic with the
sculpture of a fig baked into the side, and I passed him my denarii.
"Drink it slowly," he suggested. "It's the last drop of fig wine I
have in Rome. I shall have to return to the winery with my wagon for
another load."
* * * * *
I did drink it slowly.
Over the following two days, hoping to minimize its inebriating
effects, I sipped at the bottle of fig wine. I stayed at the insula of
Cornelius, telling Flavia I would be away. Cornelius and I observed
the slow effects of the elixir, while we discussed everything: poetry,
history, the Republic, and especially the gods. Here in my hand was an
authentic magical artifact, a device that could have been crafted by no
engineer known to Rome or Athens or Cairo. A simple brew poured into
the Bacchic Fiasco became a powerful elixir.
And, as I drank from the carafe, I could feel it once again tugging
away my male essence, absorbing my manly habits, stealing every ounce
of flesh that could have belonged only to a man. Cornelius's slaves
must have suspected something amiss when presented with the slow
transmutation of my voice and appearance, but they were loyal enough to
their master to say nothing. He treated them as well as any Roman
might, and better.
At the end of the first day, I was entirely female in body and, to my
confusion, in mind also. The Bacchic Fiasco didn't simply strip away
my male flesh, but my male thoughts and behaviors. I felt it grow more
difficult to interrupt Cornelius, or to contradict his pronouncements;
I increasingly desired to allow him to have his way, in order to make
peace and promote harmony between us. I disputed less; I conceded
more. I became attuned to his attitudes, rising from the table when he
rose, laughing when he laughed. Was I losing my independence? Was I
becoming enthralled to him? Was the magic of Bacchus making me passive
like a woman: conciliatory, subordinate, obedient, and demure? I
could not discern what had changed about my mind, but I knew it had
changed. I was not the same as I was.
Cornelius noticed it.
"I must admit, Ovidius," he said to me, admiring the delicate way I
reclined on the lectus, my thighs pressed together, my ankles crossed,
"you are learning very quickly how to impersonate a woman. I'm sure
your performance tomorrow at dinner will be indistinguishable from the
real thing. Those clothes aren't very becoming, of course, but we
shall fix that tomorrow."
"Thank you," I said meekly.
"One thing, though," he said critically, tapping his cheek with one
finger. "You really should be sitting on the chair across from me, not
reclining on the lectus."
I immediately got to my feet, embarrassed that I had been so
indecorous. Had this been a more formal affair I might seriously have
embarrassed us both. I had entirely forgotten that it was my place to
seat myself opposite to him. "I apologize, Cornelius," I said. "I
will remember tomorrow."
He laughed wryly. "You don't have to keep up the act with me,
Ovidius," he said, and hesitated. "What are we going to call you? I
can't exactly introduce you to the First Citizen as the poet Publius
Ovidius Naso."
"If I had been born a woman," I suggested helpfully, "I would have been
named for my father, Gaius Ovidius Corvus."
"You would have been Ovidia Corva, then," Cornelius grunted. "And as
my wife, you would be Ovidia Corva Quadrati. Only people from Sulmo
are named Ovidius, because that's where all the shepherds are, but the
Caesar can hardly suspect it's you in there. I don't, and I watched it
happen."
* * * * *
I stayed with Cornelius Quadratus that evening, quite unable to return
home in this condition without alarming Flavia unduly. He introduced
me to his slaves and showed me the shrines and customs of his household
god, and I did my best to perfect my performance as his dutiful, demure
bride. To my disquiet, I discovered it wasn't difficult at all to
subordinate myself to his wishes.
On the afternoon of the second day of my change, Cornelius sent his
slaves out to the forum markets to procure what I would need: a
fitting tunica, petite sandals, perfume, cosmetics, and a slave
educated in the art of applying them. He had no wife, of course, and I
had never observed my wife applying her own in the privacy of the
pulchra cella. I would need the help of a cosmeta to manage my rouge,
skin, and hair.
The astonishing transformation that I had undergone prompted a wide-
ranging discussion between us on the nature of the gods. While I stood
with my arms outstretched, as his slave Kallypso fitted my tunica,
Cornelius idled nearby eating walnuts. "You know it's funny, Ovidius,"
he mused, looking over the altered curves of my form. "I never--"
Kallypso, his Greek slave, interrupted him kindly. "Ovidia, master."
"Yes. Yes, Ovidia. How foolish of me. It's funny, Ovidia," he
amended himself, "I never gave the gods much consideration. Our
family's house has always had a shrine to our household god, of course.
I give him wine; I throw scraps of food into the hearth. But these are
just habits. I do them automatically. Occasionally I have good
fortune, occasionally bad, but I do not perceive a connection between
my fortunes and my sacrifices to the Lares of the house. Some in Rome
feel the same way I do, but some still believe. And yet here," he
said, gesturing at my altered body, "here is evidence of the existence
of true magic. How is it possible that one can be so devoted to his
family's protective spirits and see no results, while magic like this
is known to exist?"
"In times of war and strife, it is natural to question the gods," I
suggested politely. I felt absurdly proud that Cornelius had asked my
opinion, and knew I was ridiculous to feel so flattered. "When Calchas
the Oracle told King Agamemnon to sacrifice his daughter to launch the
Greek fleet," I said, "the King of Argos was doubtful. He summoned
Iphigenia to Aulis, then changed his mind and tried to send her away,
but it was too late."
"So wrote Euripides," said Cornelius dismissively. "But war and
strife: yes, I see that. We have had turmoil of our own in Rome, have
we not? The Civil War hasn't been long concluded. Caesar Augustus
only became princeps three years ago. Prior to that, our troubles have
lasted a century, all the way back to the last war against Carthage.
Sulla marching the legions into the City. Caesar assassinated before
the very eyes of the Senate. Anthony and Octavian fighting for
dominion. How many sacrifices did we make to the gods during that
century, Ovidia? How many prayers did we offer? How many Romans died?
The household gods didn't protect us then, did they? Where was
Jupiter, where was Minerva, when innocents were being executed and
citizens were begging for mercy?"
I had no adequate answer for this, but said, "When the gods desire war,
the gods get war."
"No doubt," he said bitterly. "And when the gods desire peace, what do
we get?"
"Peace?" I asked politely.
"No, we get Octavian," Cornelius sighed. "Gaius Julius Caesar
Octavianus Augustus. We get moral reforms, we get restrictions upon
our liberty. Peace in Rome -- at a price, yes, but peace. People are
beginning worship him, you know. And why not?" he asked with a
barking, sardonic laugh. "Of all the gods they could choose to
worship, at least Caesar Augustus gets results."
"The people of Rome must believe in something," I said. "If not in the
Caesar, then in some other." Kallypso reached around me, adjusting my
breasts to better hang in the tunic. Cornelius watched with considered
interest.
"I suppose you're right, Big-Nose," he said at last. "After a hundred
years of fighting and blood in the streets, it has been difficult to
believe. Perhaps that's why Augustus has been forcing morality and
probity down our throats. We have lost our faith."
I had a private thought that I could not bring myself to speak aloud.
As a woman it was no longer my place to contradict my man, and despite
the fact that I was not truly a woman, all masculine behaviors had been
so thoroughly drained from me that I held my tongue. Perhaps, I
judged, it had been the other way around. Perhaps the disbelief had
come before the strife, and the strife followed after as penance.
If that were so, I thought, then could these new moral laws of Caesar
Augustus, these constraints upon the freedoms of women: could they be
right after all?
* * * * *
On the fifth day before Market, the palace slaves came for us. In the
hours following the afternoon baths I had been in the pulchra cella
while Kallypso attended to my skin and Cornelius's new cosmeta slave,
Stratonika, curled and braided my hair. The process was tedious and
uncomfortable, but necessary if I were to successfully infiltrate the
palace of the First Citizen posing as the wife of Cornelius. Kallypso
had stripped the hair from my legs and arms with a resin paste, and
applied a fine powder to make my skin pale and perfect; Stratonika put
my hair into plaits which she tucked in carefully. I was pampered,
plucked, perfumed, and painted; my cheeks were lightly rouged; my lips
and nipples were treated with a waxy gloss to make them shine; my
fingernails were trimmed and dyed red. Last, I was dressed by the two
slaves, who tugged and tucked at my strange female anatomy to put
everything in proper shape. This sleeveless tunica would not be what I
wore to dinner with the First Citizen, but something to wear until I
arrived. My formal tunica had been sent ahead, and I would don it at
the palace.
The First Citizen had arranged for us to travel in style, and had sent
a litter to bear us to the palace on the shoulders of slaves.
Cornelius and I reclined together on a plush cushion while four husky
Germans carried us through the streets toward Palatine Hill. Our
proximity was very close, at once comfortable and awkward. There was
room to spare for both of us, but Cornelius kept his left arm around
behind my back.
"For the look of the thing, Ovidia," he said softly in my ear. He
spoke Greek, so the slaves would not understand. "Remember, I am your
husband. One dinner with the First Citizen, and this will be over."
"I understand," I said quietly, staying close to him. Pedestrians in
the narrow streets observed our stately passage, and I felt uniquely
exposed. I desired to draw the curtains, but Cornelius wished them
open.
He spoke into my ear again. "You smell divine. The cosmeta did
wonders with you."
I blushed, for some reason I cannot explain. I could not compliment
him in return without embarrassment, though I desired to.
* * * * *
We were presented at the palace of the First Citizen, a modestly rich
dwelling on Palatine that overlooked the Circus Maximus. After
declining for himself any official title of consul, dictator, or
emperor, Caesar Augustus had instead claimed the unofficial role he
held today. He was a man of a noble family, with excellent lineage and
great personal wealth. His power was merely to advise the Senate where
its interests lay. Wisely, the Senate did not oppose his suggestions.
His home was spacious and comfortable, decorated in bold colors and
intricate patterns. Frescoes covered every interior wall: striking
slabs of mustard and damask, overlaid with white trim and illuminated
with paintings of cranes, birds, imps, winged goddesses, and mythical
beings. It had multiple guest chambers to accommodate his large
family, his many guests, and any Senators whose favor he courted -- and
those whom he intimidated.
Caesar Augustus himself was a taciturn man, short of stature and
crowned with golden curls just turning to a distinguished gray. His
features were solemn, his nose straight, and his jaw lean; in his
predatory countenance there was always decision, never doubt. Augustus
wore robes of finest purple, richer than any I had ever seen, but
unadorned with gold or jewelry as was so often the custom of the
wealthy; he held his power so firmly that no display of ostentation was
needed. Instead, frugality and modesty ruled.
This parsimony echoed in the attire of his wife Livia, who appeared
ever the dutiful and regal companion. She slightly taller than
Augustus, but not overbearingly so, and radiated an impenetrable poise.
Her stola, the sober dress of the honorable matron, was of fine magenta
silk; her palla shawl was threaded subtly with gold.
Both the First Citizen and his wife gave us careful scrutiny,
interviewing us as we walked along together through the atrium, into
the inner courtyard, and beyond to the house itself. Augustus himself
focused upon Cornelius, Livia silently upon me; soon it became apparent
why.
"You yourself are a poet of good equestrian standing," the First
Citizen said to Cornelius. "And married, I gather. For very long?"
"Not very, Augustus," Cornelius admitted truthfully. "I met Ovidia
through my poetry. She is a particular fan of Virgil, of course."
"Who isn't?" Augustus asked rhetorically. "His Aeneid only increases
the glory of Rome. Today's poets would be wise to follow his example,
rather than compose verses of filth and degradation."
"I entirely agree," Cornelius said obsequiously.
The ruler of Rome fixed his gaze upon my friend Quadratus and noted,
"My wayward daughter Julia speaks of your poetry. It was at her
request, of course, that I have extended you this invitation. I do
adore her, but I must act cautiously with her when it comes to men. I
always verify the character of any man who calls upon her."
"A sensible precaution," Cornelius assured Augustus. "It may be that
her issue shall one day follow in your esteemed footsteps."
At this, the queen's eyes narrowed, and her gaze shifted to take in the
enthusiasm of Cornelius. All the while I desperately desired to
interject, but I could not; Roman women were not to defy their husbands
in a public place. Had I permission to speak, I would have reminded my
foolish friend that Caesar Augustus had married Livia because she had a
likely heir: Tiberius, Julia's stepbrother.
Cornelius seemed pleased with his conversation; the affront of the
queen was obviously imperceptible to him.
Augustus, it seemed to me, affected not to notice the impolitic remark.
"And what sort of verse do you compose, friend poet?"
"You may possibly have heard my own stanzas that serve to elaborate
upon the beginning of the Trojan War. Battle and glory," Cornelius
beamed with such conviction that I half believed him, "are the proper
subjects for the true poet."
Again I opened my mouth, but could not speak to contradict him.
Cornelius Quadratus, cynic in private, the foremost doubter of the
First Citizen and his moral codes, certainly knew how to ply Augustus
with flattery in person.
This time, Livia observed my attempt to interrupt; a mere flicker of
her eye in my direction caused me to abort my unseemly interruption.
Even as that look passed between us, her eye glanced at Augustus, then
back to me. The gaze of Caesar Augustus was upon me, and beyond me; he
stared distractedly in the direction of my throat, his eyes without
focus, as Cornelius exhorted him on the subject of Venus's pride. The
queen had a look of reserve, of caution, of burgeoning jealousy. Just
as Caesar Augustus feared for his daughter's virtue and shielded her
from the attentions of unknown or unmarried men, Livia was custodian of
her wayward husband. I knew that Cornelius had been invited at Julia's
request, but Livia feared that I --in the shape of a strange young
woman, now a feminine creature with an excellent and enviable figure --
had been invited to please Augustus. The First Citizen, it seemed,
imposed his moral codes upon Rome to compensate for his own personal
infidelity.
* * * * *
Thus approved by the master and mistress of the house, Cornelius and I
were dismissed separately: he to the courtyard to bask in the spring
warmth, and I to the guest chambers to don my formal tunica. There I
was helped by Caesaris slave women, who stripped me of my other tunica
and made minute, fussing adjustments to my hair and cosmetics, clucking
their tongues all the while at the atrocious work performed by my own
cosmetae. Once my makeup was completed for the second time that day --
this a more modest, less colorful presentation more aligned with the
Caesar's personal preferences -- I was bundled into the fresh tunica.
As I was being pushed and tugged into the close-fitting fabric, a
familiar voice sounded behind me.
"Well, well, well -- if my eyes do not deceive me, this must be Ovidia
Corva Quadrati," said the woman's voice, effusing with ironic humor.
"Married already, I see, to Cornelius Quadratus the poet. My father
always says it's important for a woman to be married."
The sound of the voice passed behind to my left, and soon an apparition
entered my field of vision. The desirable curves of Julia Caesari
appeared before me, formally attired as I now was, with every curl in
place, every dash of rouge the equal to my own. Her full, shining lips
played into an amused smirk. "How wonderful it is to see you," said
the daughter of the First Citizen. She allowed her tongue to lightly
moisten her lips as she cast her eye down the length of my figure, then
continued, "how delectable it is to see you like this. I'm sure you
are simply perishing to tell me all about your recent adventures. I
want to hear everything.
"But first," Julia Caesari said with a wicked smile, taking my upper
arm firmly in her hand, "my father and your husband are waiting for
us." Without waiting for my consent, she steered me firmly from the
dressing chamber and in the direction of dinner.
Alma
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